


Spirit Box

by BestTrashLife82



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Demonic Themes, Ghost Hunters, Humor, Husk is So Done (Hazbin Hotel), Original Character(s), Other, Paranormal Investigators, Spirit Box, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26273263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BestTrashLife82/pseuds/BestTrashLife82
Summary: Two amateur paranormal investigators use a spirit box and contact The Radio Demon by mistake. Alastor doesn’t appreciate it but uses the opportunity to torment and troll the living daylights out of them both.
Relationships: Alastor & Rosie (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	1. As Above, So Below

On the surface of the earth above, two young women were trying to talk to ghosts. Carol was a bit of a skeptic while Anne was a believer, but both knew without a doubt that Bigfoot exists because they met him on Labor Day back in 2007. He had hooted and waved at them, and they had screamed and ran into the nearby forest. They both agreed that they had matured significantly since that time, and were now more emotionally prepared to apprehend or at least get video evidence of any hominid ape creature they might subsequently encounter. 

Carol and Anne had purchased a new toy that they hoped would let them talk to ghosts. Or at the very least, hear from ghosts.

“It got great reviews on ghosthuntergear.com,” said Ann.  
Carol frowned. It didn’t look very impressive, just a black plastic rectangle with one tiny speaker. “Looks more outdated than an iPod to me! That thing cost seventy bucks?”  
“Seventy nine, actually!”  
“We could have used that money to go on a road trip somewhere haunted.”  
“Well yeah, but now we have equipment that we can use to get evidence that somewhere is haunted! That’s way more important.”  
Carol sighed. She had been looking forward to that road trip. “Well, hopefully that thing actually works so we get our money’s worth. It looks like a cheap version of my granddad’s ham radio.”  
“Only one way to find out!” Anne said excitedly, and pressed the power button on the radio wave scanner, listening as the sounds fizzed and popped merrily to life. 

Below the bowels of the earth, in the pits of hell, red skies glowed, sinners dropped like hideous rain, and one very powerful demon’s red pointy ears twitched.  
The Radio Demon was lunching with another prominent demon at the time. Technically, it was tea, not lunch. Alastor never could deny Rosie the satisfaction of serving and pouring a perfectly-brewed pot, all lace gloves and grace as her twin soulless black voids gazed from beneath the wide brim of her skull-adorned hat. The teapot itself was cleverly crafted from the skull of some sinner or other.  
As soon as she had seated herself, Alastor gave his teacup a subtle tap with a red claw, and its contents turned to bitter black coffee.  
They were having pleasant small talk about their respective infernal affairs, and the conversation was just taking a pleasing turn into delicious gossip and light mockery, when he twitched again, and again, rapid tics of movement accompanied by brief blurts of static.  
There was a gentle rustle of feathers on her hat as Rosie turned to glance at his microphone, which was propped up against the table.  
“Say Alastor, is something amiss with your device there?”  
A quirk of his head. “I don’t think so, Rosie dear! Now what were you saying about those rowdy little imps from the circle of wrath?”  
Their conversation continued normally for a while, until: “Why yes, they would make a charming addition to your taxidermy collection, I could even assist you with--” A burst of feedback cut off his statement, his red eyes filled with static, rapidly shifting and warping, his microphone nearby and his own self emitting chaotic, disjointed sounds.  
Rosie sniffed at the rude outburst, and the liquid in both of their cups froze solid with her disapproval.  
The Radio Demon rose to leave, making his excuses, which were punctuated by loud hiccups of static noise.  
“Wait a moment, Alastor.” She beckoned him closer and he leaned forward. “Your bowtie is askew. There!” She set him to rights with skeletal hands. “You come back to me later when you’re feeling more yourself and we can continue our visit, old friend.”  
Alastor was feeling cross that he had to cut their visit short. He always did enjoy socializing with prim, grim Rosie, who had a way of making even hell feel a bit more civilized.  
He left, tapping curiously at his microphone, which still spat out random fragments of sound, rapidly cycling through radio frequencies. An undesirable resonance was afoot, one that, every so often, cropped up specifically for him alone and had to be dealt with using his particular talents. 

Someone, somewhere, was using a radio to talk to spirits.


	2. Reach Out and Touch Someone

“You want to try it again?” Anne asked. “We should try it at night, somewhere we know there might be restless spirits. We could hit up the graveyard.”  
Carol had been less than impressed with the spirit box’s performance so far. “I mean, sure, but it’s really just a broken radio. I think we’d have more luck with a Ouija board.”  
“Excuse me, this is not just a broken radio! It’s an E-XG7 Spirit Box Paranormal Research Device, just like they use on those ghost hunting shows. It’s supposed to scan through a bunch of different radio stations per second. And Ouija boards are too dangerous; you know that!”  
“You’ve got a point. They’re also hard to use outside at night, unless you’ve got one of those glow-in-the-dark ones,” Carol said.  
“Right. So we’ll meet at the graveyard at twelve fifteen to talk to some ghosts!”  
“But security kicked us out of the graveyard before, remember?”  
“Ok, so then we’ll stand near the graveyard!”  
“Great! Out on the street during prime meth zombie hobo wandering hours.”  
“C’mon, we don’t even have to stay out that long for the session!”  
“Eh.”  
“What if I bring us both Starbucks?”  
“Ok.”  
Two women, young enough to not be called old but old enough to definitely know better, stood in front of their local cemetery, far enough from the entrance to not draw the attention of any guards that may be doing their job that night.  
Both held coffees, and one held a small radio tuner with a speaker plugged into it.  
The spirit box began to hiss and spit as it rapidly scanned radio waves. Anne leaned forward eagerly to listen while Carol drank her coffee and scanned the streets for shady characters that could provide an excuse to call it an early night.  
“Hello!” Anne said cheerfully into the empty darkness. “Is there anyone here with us tonight?”

Alone, the Radio Demon honed in on the frequency that seemed the most bothersome, the one whose emissions he couldn’t seem to control yet. He tapped his microphone and let a snowstorm of static haze over his eyes as he sought the shape of the thing that troubled him. 

The interference was annoying, like inconsistent drops of rain falling on his head. The intent behind it felt selfish yet stupidly innocent, definitely the product of an earth-bound soul. 

A red eye blinked open on the microphone he held, its narrow pupil attentive and insane. It functioned as a speaker when Alastor wished it to. 

“Hello! Is anyone here with us tonight?”

The opportunity for mischief quirked his grin up much, much higher than any mortal being’s grin was allowed to go. It was impossible to resist a chance to mess with the mortal realm and poke at souls that were not yet damned. It made his own red eyes itch to think of their uncorrupted souls. They’d probably end up in Alastor’s service one day, eventually. 

They brought this upon themselves, after all. 

He wouldn’t talk to them himself yet. They hadn’t earned that. Instead, he stitched together messages for them from the sputtering fragments of existing sounds, and transmitted them from himself to his microphone, which was also part of himself. 

“Hello!” the spirit box spat out, the word barely audible among a sandwich of static.  
“Did you hear that, Carol? It said ‘Hello!’”  
“I can’t hear anything over your yelling.”  
“It definitely said hello! We’re talking to something; we made contact!”  
“Oh, that noise could’ve been anything.”  
“So you did hear it! Let’s ask it something else, then! And listen up this time.” She held the spirit box up higher as though to bring it closer to the ears of her taller friend. “I’m Anne, and this is my friend Carol! What’s your name?”  
“Anne,” the box hissed. “Carol.”  
“Holy shit! It said our names!”  
“It didn’t say what its name is, though, and that’s what you asked it.”  
“Look, that was still an intelligent response!”  
“Or we could be talking to a ghost parrot.”  
“Squawk,” went the box. “Pretty bird!”  
They both stared at the tiny plastic radio tuner, which was now shuffling through its endless library of sounds and spitting out nonsensical phonemes.  
Finally, Carol spoke up. “Are you messing with us, ghost?”  
More nonsense audio clips stuttered: “ . . . the best in . . . dog meat . . . introducing . . . maybe yes and maybe no . . .” It went on like this for quite some time.  
Carol walked away to toss her empty coffee cup into a trash can nearby. “Maybe we call it a night? Doesn’t look like we’re getting anywhere with all the radio noise.”  
“Wait, let me try some of the different settings on this thing!”  
“Settings?”  
“Yeah, it’s got a few different speeds, and you can sweep backwards and forwards and things like that.” She increased the speed at which it shuffled through the channels. “Who are you?” Anne asked the surrounding darkness. “Where are you from?”  
Carol snickered. “Awkward first date questions, huh? Why don’t you ask the ghost what it does for a living? Oh wait-it’s dead!”  
The spirit box, flipping madly through radio stations, spat out rapid fire laughter in a hundred different voices: “Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-hahahahahaha!”  
“Don’t piss off the ghosts, Carol!”  
“What? That sounded like it thought it was funny!”  
“We don’t even know who or what it is!” Anne squinted into the darkness as though looking for answers. “Will you talk to us please? Tell us your name? Anything?”  
“Two grande pumpkin spice lattes, please,” Anne’s own voice, muffled and staticy, emitted from the speaker. “Oh, you don’t have soy milk? Just use regular milk; it’s fine!”  
“What the fuck,” said Carol. “Is that you? When you ordered our coffee?”  
Anne blanched. “Yeah, I think so.”  
“You bitch, you know I’m vegan!”  
“But you ate ice cream with me last week!”  
“That was last week! I’m trying to do better!”  
“You’re missing the point, Carol!” Anne waved the device she held. “How did this thing know what I said? It wasn’t even turned on when I ordered us coffee!”  
They both stared at each other, and then at the small, round speaker of the spirit box.  
It emitted white noise.  
“This is the government, I bet,” Carol said solemnly. “This some QAnon shit. You better throw that thing away; maybe melt it down first?”  
“Oh hell no! This cost seventy-nine bucks, and I’m going to get all the use I can out of it!” Anne scowled at the radio tuner and began to furiously sweep it backwards.  
“Hey!” She called out. “Are you listening to us all the time, spirit? Was that you playing my voice back to us?”  
The spirit box made an odd beeping sound before the following phrase emerged from garbled static: “Daed eht ekovorp ot erad ytidiputs ni ekila htob snamuh owt.”  
“Uh,” Anne said. “That sounded more like Satan than like the government.”  
“Well, yeah, toe-may-toh, toe-mah-toh,” said Carol. “Either way it’s some kinda malevolent, destructive force!”  
“Stnuoc htob no thgir,” spat the spirit box.  
“That’s enough, that’s enough!” Anne said, and pressed the power button. The static and the noise went dead, leaving a cottony wall of silence.


	3. Speak of the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Google translated Latin phrases ahead! Maybe if you know Latin you can help a sinner out?

Ch. 3: Speak of the Devil

Alastor leaned against the polished wood surface of the bar. He grinned hugely at the long-suffering bartender, ran the pad of one red-clawed finger over its gleaming surface, and held it up. 

“See?” he said. 

A pair of long, bushy, red eyebrows glared back at him.

“See what? I’ve been cleaning this bar all day, don’t even try telling me it’s dusty.”

“Ah! Well in that case, shall we ask Niffty and see if it’s up to snuff by her standards?” 

Husk hissed expletives under his breath as he grabbed a clean cloth to rub the bar down again. 

“What’s crawled up your ass, then?” Husk asked, glaring down at his own reflection on the countertop. 

“Excuse me?” Alastor’s head tilted sharply.

“Something’s bothering you, chief. Normally you’re the obnoxious one, and that’s still true, but you seem downright annoyed, yourself. And that’s on top of those radio noises coming out of you at odd times, all the time. What’s wrong with you? You got some kind of electronic gas? You sick?”

“Nothing of the sort. Why, I’m fit as a fiddle!”

“Figures I wouldn’t be lucky enough to have you out of commission for a while,” Husk grumbled, twitching his tufted tail. 

Alastor ignored that. “I have some advice for you, Husker.” 

The bartender snorted and intensified his cleaning efforts.

“If you ever find yourself nostalgic for the world of the living, just talk to them for a minute. You’ll feel positively glad that you died!”

“Couldn’t be worse than talking to you. I'm not glad about anything as long as you’re around.” 

In response, Alastor repeated a gesture that he had seen Angel Dust make several times, though its effect was somewhat diminished, as the Radio Demon only had two hands to work with: he made finger guns at his recalcitrant feline associate.

Husk sneered, and seemed to be ready to tell Alastor where he could put his hands, when the Radio Demon’s teeth lit up and began to make buzzing sounds. An inane conversation from the living world was briefly broadcast from his teeth, the content of which seemed to be two fully grown women arguing over which animated series to binge watch. 

Husk’s eyes went wide, bushy eyebrows raised. “I don’t feel bad for you,” he said. “But, hey, putting up with that all the time? That’s rough.” 

He slid a glass of cognac over to the Radio Demon, who drank it down in one swallow, which didn’t deter or interrupt the unintentional transmission one bit. 

Alastor was feeling quite like Harry Houdini at the moment. Specifically, Houdini in 1922 when the famous magician bought a new expensive radio, but found that he could only get static on it. He became so enraged that he went to the store he bought it from and, in the great tradition of Carry Nation with her hatchet and Jesus in that den of thieves, smashed up every radio in the place. 

If he could have, Alastor would have destroyed every radio on the face of the mortal earth. It probably wouldn’t solve his current problem but golly it would feel nice.

By now he’d figured out that what made the blasted spirit box precisely so effective was its tendency to malfunction. Whenever it failed to pick up a frequency, which was often, it picked up his. Odd fragments of his conversations would be briefly, awkwardly transmitted to the world of the living. And vice versa. 

So far the only good thing about these uncontrolled bursts of audio was how Charlie would laugh at him and say, “Excuse you, Al!” which was adorable. 

Two mortal beings were taking up far too much of his own air time for his liking. 

An escalation is in order, Alastor thought. He added to this thought memories and knowledge of humans who had similar beliefs and had tried similar things before. He dragged the tip of his tongue over the sharp points of his long, yellow teeth, feeling and tasting the accompanying sensation of static electricity. 

Carol, and Anne: two human paranormal dabblers. Afraid of Ouija Boards, yet willing to ingest something called “pumpkin spice.” Prone to petty disagreement, yet seemingly connected by a strong bond. 

He supposed they must believe in demons. If only he could appear before them in his infernal, eldritch form and tell them to shut up and knock it off. But he could do the next best thing. 

Alastor shut his eyes, conjured his microphone, and leaned into the aspects of himself that were the most demonic. For him, this felt positively traditional. Lucifer would probably approve, which gave him a sour feeling, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped. After all, nothing can torment a human quite like a good, old-fashioned demon. 

Back in the mortal realm, Anne sat at her computer and listened back to the audio from their latest spirit box session, frowning. 

“I remember it talking backwards, but I don’t know where all this EVP about hotels came from. I don’t remember hearing anything like that, do you?”

“Nah,” said Carol. “All I remember is you sabotaging my efforts to go vegan.” 

“You still mad at that? I’ve apologized so many times! And I took you out to lunch at Bamboo Grill, even though I hate their food.” 

“Then why did you eat an appetizer, a full entree, and dessert?”

“Ugh, just listen to this and tell me what you think.”

“I think,” Carol said, backing away from the headphones and the small plastic device, “That it smells like poop. Swampy poop. Did you drop this thing in the toilet or what?” 

“What? I don’t smell anything!”

“Ok, so the smell is you then? Wait, no.”  
Carol leaned in and sniffed. “It’s coming from your headphones and from the radio thing.” 

“It’s called a spirit box!”

“Whatever. It stinks; clean it!”

“I think the smell is in your head, I really do,” said Anne. Then she screamed, ripped her headphones off, and cast them to the floor. 

“Jesus Christ!” she shrieked. “Do you see that?”

“I can practically see stink waves from how bad it smells,” said Carol. “But other than that, what’s the problem?”

“The, the earphones,” said Anne, pointing at them like it should be obvious. “They started to bleed! Blood! Red Blood! Coming from the part the sound comes through!”

“Yeah, I don’t see any blood on your headphones there. How long has it been since you’ve had a full night’s sleep again?”

“Hey, I know what I saw!” She raised a hand to her ear. “Look!”

Carol looked, and saw her friend's fingertips stained with red. “Dude. No more listening to that for you. We are making a doctor’s appointment for you right now. And I’m going to spray some Febreeze on that damned shit-smelling radio box.”

Down in hell, Alastor drummed his claws on the back of his microphone and began speaking in Latin. 

“What the fuck is that voice?” Anne said. She had gauze stuffed in her ears at the moment, so it was kind of impressive she could hear anything at all. 

“Did you turn on that radio thing?” Carol asked.

“Spirit box! And no, I did not!” 

“So how is it, uh, talking?” 

“I have no damn clue, Carol!”

“Non fueris locutus ut mortuos in inferno,” sputtered the spirit box in a deep, diabolic voice fizzing with static. “Erit quietam in perpetuum, et me solum relinquatis!”

Carol grabbed the spirit box and shook it. “Is this thing stuck on some Catholic Latin Mass radio station? Ugh, now it smells like rotten meat! What is causing that terrible smell?”

“Ego olfacies horribilis,” intoned the deep voice from the tiny round speaker. “Im 'non me paenitet.”

“God!” yelled Anne. “Turn the damn thing off!” 

“It is off!”

“Well, then, turn it on?”

“Ok!”

Carol pressed the “on” button, and the signal dropped. 

The signal dropped right into Alastor’s lap. He licked his lips and intoned right into his glowing red microphone: “Audi me, et audi vocem meam. Idcirco praecipio tibi ut a carnibus hominum se. Idcirco praecipio tibi ut audiret jazz music.”

He traced the oval frame of his monocle with the red tip of his claw. Static hissed and bubbled, and he transmitted from himself to the mortal realm choice samples of jazz, and the tantalizing scent of cooking meat. 

“Do you hear that, Anne?” 

“Yeah, it’s terrible, like the music they play in the waiting room at the dentist,” she groaned. “And damn if I’m not suddenly in the mood for some barbeque.” 

Carol just scowled at her. 

“Sorry! What, don’t vegans barbeque tofu or something?”

“What the hell do we do now?”

“I don’t know! Wait,” said Anne, slapping a palm to her forehead and running her fingers back through her hair. “We should talk to it! We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Ha. Ok,” said Carol. “I’ll talk to it.”

“Be careful-” Anne began.

“Hey, ghost!” shouted Carol, now holding the spirit box. “What the hell are you doing to us? What do you even want?”

Alastor leaned back in his chair and sucked a deep breath through his hideous teeth and into his long dead lungs. Finally. Finally, they asked the right question. 

Now they could hear his voice. 

Now he could start to play.


	4. And He Shall Appear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's blood in this chapter.

The box stuttered abruptly, sweeping through channels increasingly fast, though Carol had not pushed the button to increase its speed. For a moment, not even a word or syllable could be heard, just rapid blips and crackles seething in static. 

Then the signal seemed to clear, as though clouds faded from the sky to let a beam of light shine through. 

Only instead of down from the heavens, it came up from the other place. 

A burst of enthusiastic applause from a long-dead studio audience erupted from the tiny speaker. 

Carol dropped the box in shock as one voice spoke from it, issuing forth with a resonance and volume that should have been impossible for the little radio box. The voice seeped out from the box, bringing erratic white static noise with it, until the small living room of their apartment seemed to fill with the voice and the noise.

Carol and Anne both heard the voice crackle to life. 

“What an unexpected development for our listeners!” The voice burst forth from the tiny speaker. “After countless hours of fiddling about and wasting time, these two amatuer mediums, these would-be Fox Sisters, have finally asked a respectable question! What do I even want, indeed! Such a question will do nicely to open up two-way communication between mortals and spirits.”

It was jarring to hear smooth, unbroken sentences spoken by one consistent voice as the radio box honed in and riveted on one particular channel.

Anne spoke up. “Can you answer our question? What do you want with us?” 

“Well, an even better question would be: What do you want from me? My dear, I believe it was you and your tall friend who decided to open up the channels of supernatural communication via radio!” 

Carol shook her head. “This sounds fake as hell. Didn’t you say that this radio thing uses all the different stations to talk? This sounds like one guy. One really white, old-timey, fake-voiced guy. Someone, somewhere is running a scam with this, I bet. Like those phone calls that pretend to be from the insurance company.”

Anne took the gauze out of her ears, seeing how they were now clean, no blood to be seen. “How does it know that you’re tall?”

“Could be coincidence. We won’t fall for whatever cold reading bullshit tactics you’re pulling, get it?” Carol scolded into the air. “You’re not getting our credit card numbers, fucker!”

“Now, that’s very rude!” The voice chided, though it was still full of energetic enthusiasm. “Especially when you’re the ones who wanted to talk to me. Why don’t we chat like civilized beings? What could you possibly want from the spirit world, ladies?”

“We were trying to contact the dead!” Anne groaned, her face in her hands.

“Speaking!”

“So you’re really a ghost, huh?” Carol asked the voice in the box. 

“Ha! Not exactly my dear. But I am dead as dead can be.”

“All right then,” Carol said. “Prove it. Do some ghost stuff. Ectoplasm! Make the walls bleed! Move something around.” 

“Oh? This request after I already went to the trouble of making your friend’s headphones there bleed?”

“Well, now prove that was actually you!” Carol countered. “C’mon, make with the paranormal activity. Unless you can’t, of course. Unless you’re just a normal scamming human sack of garbage like we think you are. Then please, continue with your weird con man talk!” 

“Ah, and how much blood does it take to impress a living human being? I just so happen to know the answer to that particular conundrum very, very well.” The voice in the spirit box dropped several demonic octaves on the word “well.” Static noises spluttered from the single small speaker. 

“Are you thirsty, ladies?” The voice purred. “Perhaps you’d like to get a cola to drink!” 

Carol and Anne looked at each other, and jumped up, Anne from her computer chair and Carol from the old, broken recliner, to race to the fridge, where they knew there was a fresh case of generic diet cola waiting. 

“Ok, ok,” said Carol, opening the fridge. “I just spoke with whatever that thing is, so I think it’s only fair that you open up this here soda.” 

“Why, though?” Anne protested. “That thing already made my ears bleed!” 

“Yeah, I’m not so sure it actually did that. Do your ears even hurt? Are they still bleeding, or even sensitive?”

“Well,” said Anne, rubbing her ears. “No, not really. Right, I’ll do the thing you are too scared to do, as usual.” Anne grabbed a bottle of soda and twisted off the cap quickly. There was no fizzing or bubbling, no hiss of contained carbonation. But there was a sick, organic, wet, coppery smell. 

“Oh, shit,” said Anne. 

“Yeah, I smell it too,” said Carol. “But that radio also smelled like literal shit a moment ago. You’d better taste it to be sure.”

“Me? Oh, hell no! I already opened it, you should be the one to taste it! C’mon, I already had blood in my ears.” Anne paused a moment. “Er, at least, it felt and looked like I did? Either way, it’s your turn!” 

Carol fumed. “I. Am. Vegan!” 

“Shit. Fine. Here goes nothing. You better get ready to call poison control, or a priest, or someone!” 

“You think I don’t know who we’re gonna call?” 

Anne hoisted her middle finger high as she took a deep swig from the bottle of soda, like it was a dare, like she was being paid to do it. 

A moment later she bent over double, retching into the sink, as Carol held back her long, black hair. 

“Yeah,” Anne gasped. “It’s blood! Blood, bloody, blood blood!” 

From the other room, the spirit box gave off a muffled chattering sound. The voice was speaking again. 

“Damn it!” Carol threw a dish towel at Anne and ran into the other room. “What is it? What the hell do you want?” 

“Ha! Jesus himself turned water into wine, now who do you suppose turns cola into blood? And don’t you want some ice to go with it? I thought you ladies would at least pour your beverage into a glass! I assumed either of you had a quarter teaspoon of class, do forgive me.”

“Anne!” Carol yelled. “Check the ice cube tray and the glasses in the cupboard!” 

“Nope!” Anne yelled back. “I’m going to the bathroom to brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth, you check!” 

Anne raced past Carol and down the hall, into the bathroom. The door slammed stubbornly shut.

Carol made her way to the kitchen, clutching the spirit box and swearing. 

She opened the freezer and pulled out the ice cube tray. Sure enough, it now had frozen cubes of a dubious, dark substance. Carol chucked it into the sink and went to the cupboards.

Every single cup, bowl, mug, and tupperware container was full of blood. The stench filled her sinuses and made her very brain sick. 

“Is that enough blood to satisfy you?” the voice from the spirit box asked smoothly. “Dearest? I can give you more blood if you wish. And I really don’t know what it is you’ve got against meat. You needn’t eat the flesh of animals, after all. Why, the flesh of your inept companion would be positively delectable on your tongue, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think consuming human flesh would be the most compassionate act you could ever do for dear mother earth, darling?” 

Carol dropped the tiny radio tuner into the sink. “Well,” she said, actually considering for a moment lessening the carbon footprint of another human being through cannibalism. “That’s insane! Shut up! How did you get all that blood in all the glasses and everything? How did you do it? Are you making us hallucinate somehow?” She gripped the edge of the sink. “Hallucinogens in the coffee? In the soda? Does this radio release chemicals into the air? Have we become the subjects of some kind of MK-Ultra mind altering experiment? There just has to be a reasonable explanation!” 

The walls in the kitchen echoed with the hollow, rolling laughter of an invisible audience. “Bless your heart! Yes, all of those things you just said sound very reasonable, indeed!” 

A loud, retching sound came from the bathroom. Carol shoved the radio box into the back pocket of her jeans and booked down the hall.

“What is it? Are you ok?” 

“There’s blood coming from the faucet! And the toothpaste?” Anne waved the toothpaste tube wildly, “is now, uh, meat paste? I think we know for sure we’re dealing with a spirit, Carol! I think it can stop proving itself now!” Anne grabbed the spirit box from Carol’s pocket. “What do you say, spirit? Will you stop proving yourself? We believe you!” 

“Oh, what a shame, and just as the show was getting started! I’ve barely started to limber up, let alone truly flex my powers. What you two saw was just a mere twitch, the tiniest gesture of what I can do.”

Anne took in a deep breath. “Maybe we can start over, spirit. Maybe we, um, got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry we offended you by not believing in your existence.”

“I’m not sorry,” Carol said, and Anne nudged her with an elbow.

“Anyway, you know a bit about us and our names and such. But what about you? Who are you? What is your name?”

The voice in the box chuckled deeply, richly. “Well, I never! Has our dear Anne found manners at last? Tell me, did you find them under the bloody sink or in your friend Carol’s pocket among the lint?”

Anne grit her teeth. “Yeah, I get it, we’ve been rude. Will you say your name, please?”

“Alastor.” The straightforward answer caught her off guard. 

“Alastor? Oh, that sounds--”

“Made up,” Carol interrupted. “It sounds like a made-up name. Like your voice sounds made-up. Maybe, if you stop faking a personality, we will believe in you more. Just, take it into consideration.” 

“Shut up!” Anne hissed at her friend. “Try to be nice to it! We’ve seen what it can do!” 

“Oh,” Alastor said, “You haven’t even begun-”

“Yeah, we know,” Carol said, “we haven’t even seen the tiniest bit of what you can do! The trick with the blood was impressive. But I’m still not sure we’re talking to a spirit, a ghost, or just some reject radio-host with time on his hands and a pervy interest in spying on our conversations.” 

A crescendo of static was her only response to this. 

“Great,” said Anne. “Now you’ve pissed it off.”

“Not ‘it,’” Carol mocked. “‘Alastor!’ You better use his creepy, mysterious, definitely not made-up name or he’ll get upset!” 

“Carol, cut it out! What more do you want it to do? You saw all the blood!”

“Yeah, and it’s gross. This is stupid! The voice and its name are stupid.”

Anne sighed. “Yeah, but sometimes, the stupidest things turn out to be true!”

There was a quiet moment, the only sound being the fizz of static from the spirit box. 

“You have a point.” 

“May I speak now,” the voice from the spirit box piped up, “without being rudely interrupted?”

“Yes, Alastor,” Anne said. “You mentioned before that you were dead. Could you please tell us how you died? If it’s not too much trouble?”

“Geez, don’t lay it on thick or anything,” Carol muttered. 

“The circumstances of my demise are a bit personal, I’m afraid,” Alastor said. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t share them with two mortal humans who have only recently learned what basic manners are. But please, do ask another question! I’m sure there’s much you two could learn from me, if you ask the right way.”

“When did you die? Can you say the year?” Carol asked, narrowing her eyes. 

“Ah, see?” Alastor encouraged. “You almost sounded civil! That wasn’t so hard, now was it? I died in 1933.” 

“What part of the country are, er, were, you from?” Anne asked.

“Louisiana. New Orleans, to be more precise.”

“That’s funny,” Carol crossed her arms. “Because you don’t sound Southern at all.”

“He kinda does,” mused Anne. “You know, the ‘my dears’ and the ‘darlings’ and those other expressions.” She waved her hands vaguely. 

“But his voice,” Carol said, “does not sound like the way people normally talk. He sounds like he’s putting on an act.” 

“You know, I can still hear everything you two ladies are saying on my end!” Said Alastor’s voice, which did indeed sound like he was putting on an act. 

“1933,” said Anne. “That’s what he sounds like. Black and white movies with guys in suits holding martinis. That voice, that old timey voice? You know, the kind of voice that sounds like,” she gave up using words and just made jazz hands.

“I’m pretty sure people didn’t talk like him all the time in 1933,” said Carol. 

“They did on the radio, dear! And I was a radio man, through and through! Though I am no longer technically a man, technically I still am on the radio, all of the time. It’s how I operate. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but there we are.” 

Anne tapped the spirit box excitedly, as though she’d figured something out.

“Is your soul trapped inside the radio, Alastor? Are you stuck sounding like you did back in the old radio days?” 

The sound of an audience laughing rolled out from the speaker in response. 

“What an adorable notion! But no. And how interesting that you would bring up the location of my soul.”

“Hell,” said Carol, rolling her eyes, “If you were a DJ, a radio host, back in your old timey days, you must be in hell. Am I right or what?” She nudged her friend. “All DJs are horrible jerks, we know this to be true from our college days. You do get bonus points for not being named ‘Dante,’ though. Or ‘Damien,’ or ‘Raven,’ for that matter. But yeah. All DJs should be rotting in hell, and hopefully you are no exception.” 

From the speaker of the radio box, a squeal of feedback from a microphone sounded, followed by amplified white noise, which grew louder and louder until both women had to cover their ears. A series of brief, muffled pops issued forth from around the apartment as every single light bulb in the place shattered.

“Aw, crap!” Anne yelped as the lamp nearest to her exploded, sending cheap ceramic and glass flying. “Damn it Carol!” 

“Hey!” Carol said, kneeling to pick up the shards of the broken lamp. “I’m not the one who did this. Not my fault if Alastor here is having a tantrum.”

“So, spirit?” Anne asked. “Is my friend here correct? Are you in hell?”

“Well of course I am! You two should have known that the moment you heard the Latin and saw the blood!”

“Oh, man,” said Anne. “We’ve been talking to a dead soul trapped in hell this whole time?”

“My dear, did you not consider that possibility when you turned on that malfunctioning radio box of yours?” 

“Uh, well,” Anne said sheepishly. “I didn’t really think a spirit box could reach as far as hell? All the other ghost hunters said that it’s used for talking to spirits who haven’t yet passed over and have some kind of unfinished business.” 

“Ghost hunters! Do you two young ladies mean to hunt me? If you are looking for ghosts I’m afraid you’re rather barking up the wrong tree.” 

Carol frowned. “You’ve said that. If you’re not a ghost, but you’re dead and in hell, what does that make you?” 

Anne looked over at Carol, who stood over by the garbage can where she’d thrown the shards of the broken lamp away. Her shoulders suddenly shot up around her ears. “Oh, no,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“Bless my damned soul!” hooted the voice from the spirit box. “Anne’s figured it out, do catch up, Carol.” 

“What? What is it?”

Anne carefully extracted the spirit box from Carol’s grasp. “You’re a demon aren’t you?”

“Naturally! Or should I say supernaturally? Spiritually?”  
“This isn’t good,” Anne said. “We never meant to fuck with any demons!”

“Ha! I believe there are posters here in hell warning of that very thing, regarding me. Your unfortunate choice of communication is interfering with my infernal day-to-day routine, I’m afraid. I thought if we could talk, you’d be properly afraid, awed, and maybe even learn a thing or two. There’s a lot I could offer two mortal humans like you. Knowledge of the afterlife, how to borrow power from the spirits and get others to do your bidding, such things are my specialty.”

Anne looked over at her friend with trepidation. “What do you think, Carol?”

“I think we should give your cursed, broken radio box a bath in some holy water. Maybe sprinkle in some holy bath salts for good measure. If Alastor here is actually a demon, then this is just the beginning of our problems!” 

“That is the wisest thing you’ve said to date, bless you! But what I’ve said is true. Think about it. I’m going to sign off now. As pleasantly inane as this conversation has been, I do have certain obligations I must fulfill. If you wish to speak with me again, simply fire up your broken radio box and ask for me by name! In a civil manner, or I won’t speak. In the meantime, I’ll be listening, of course. And you’ll hear a thing or two from my end as well. Thus brings to a close another spirit box session! This program is brought to you at odd hours of any given day or night by The Radio Demon. Goodnight, mortals and damned souls!” 

The voice in the box was gone, and the following silence never felt more like dead air than it did in that moment.


	5. A Passing Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This came out more filler-like than I wanted. But I wanted more Rosie.

Rosie was out for a stroll in hell. Wherever she walked, she turned heads. Often she turned heads three hundred and sixty degrees until the necks attached to the heads snapped with a neat little pop. Any sinner who looked at her with ill or lascivious intent soon found their eyes fizzing and dissolving right in their sockets. 

“If your right eye offends me, pluck it out,” Rosie sniffed as she daintily stepped over such offending sinners, who were usually at that point writhing on the ground, clawing uselessly at the air as their eyes turned into jelly and foam. 

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in a nearby window, she smiled, admiring the exquisite arrangement of feathers and bones on her hat. She was in rare form today, as she was everyday, don’t let anybody tell her otherwise. 

She had a basket on her arm and a spring in her step. She knew, she just knew, that the items in the basket were just right, and would be appreciated. She knew that her shoes fit right and made satisfying clicking sounds upon the ground, sounds that sent other demons scattering from her on the street even as they summoned faces to press against windows to stare at her. Rosie was a sight to behold, and every swish of her skirts brought forth the scent of lavender, old lace, and mummy dust. 

When she reached the haphazard, towering bulk of the Hazbin Hotel, she smiled at the apple motif on the stained glass windows, and rapped politely at the door. 

There was a series of muffled yells from within, as though the responsibility of answering the door was being passed from demon to demon. Rosie wondered if they would ever acquire a demon dedicated to receive guests. An imp or hellhound would surely fit the bill for such a menial job. 

The door creaked open, seemingly by itself. Rosie stepped over the threshold into the lobby, and peered down at the tiny demon who had let her in. 

The little pink-haired creature looked up at her with one large, fiery eye and began to bounce up and down on tiny, stick-like legs.

“Oh gosh, hi!” Niffty waved rapidly until her hand resembled a blur. “We weren’t expecting such an important guest! This place isn’t nearly ready for you! I better go bring out some lace doilies, I know you like those! Oh, oh! And tea! He says you like tea! I don’t know if we have any! There sure is a lot of alcohol though! You don’t like that, do you?” 

“Do calm yourself, little miss,” Rosie said, with a firm coldness that swept over the hotel lobby, creating icy patterns on the stained glass windows. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood running errands, and I thought I might drop in to check up on Alastor. Is he here?” Now, Rosie knew very well that the Radio Demon was there, but she also knew that, even though she was dead, civility did not have to be. 

“Sure! I’ll tell him you’re here!” She zipped away fast as anything. 

As Rosie waited a moment in the lobby, the chill of her presence made itself known. The shadows in her vicinity thickened and a light frost formed over bannisters and countertops. 

Behind the bar, Husk fluffed up his fur, scowled, and warmed himself up with a swig from a bottle. He didn’t ask Rosie if she wanted a drink. He knew better than to offer anything to a friend of Alastor’s. 

“Rosie! What brings such an elegant, refined presence to our humble hotel?” Alastor stood next to her, having just materialized from the shadows nearby. 

“Good afternoon to you, Alastor.” She gave The Radio Demon a shark-sized smile to rival his own. “I was out for a stroll and thought I would pop in to inquire after your health, and to give you this,” Rosie handed the covered basket to him. 

He took it and peeked inside, his oval-shaped scarlet eyes and teeth lighting up and buzzing with delight. “Ah, Rosie my dear! What a treat!” He rocked back and forth in his hooved shoes excitedly. “Bone marrow!” He opened the jar and dipped in a claw to taste. “Savory and unctuous, just how I like. And, oh,” he lifted up and sniffed a substantial package wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string, “Venison tenderloin! A delicacy, indeed! And what’s this?” He lifted a small thermos and tapped it curiously.

“Bone broth, sir,” Rosie sniffed. “A restorative liquid for when you are feeling out of sorts. And do mind the contents of the flask, and the other materials at the bottom of the basket.” Alastor peered deeper within the basket and his smile grew very, very wide. “Oh, my!” He splayed a clawed hand across his chest, right over the inverted cross on his shirt. “Darling Rosie! You spoil this old demon with such rarities!”

“Now, now, Alastor,” said Rosie, shaking her head so that the feathers of her hat trembled and the bones rattled. “These are simply some bits and bobs to lift your spirits. What you do with your many assorted spirits after they have been lifted is none of my business I’m sure!” If Rosie had eyelids, she would have winked, but Alastor heard the wink in her voice all the same. She leaned in closer to him, conspiratorial. “Are you still experiencing your, ahem, episodes? I mean no offense, but simply ask out of concern for your wellbeing, you understand.” 

Alastor chuckled. If she had been any other demon he would have ruffled her hair, but seeing as how it was Rosie, he merely gave a little bow.  
“Your concern is touching Rosie, but this is a matter that is a bit beyond your expertise. It’s all to do with radio waves and how they poke and provoke the dead and damned. In fact, it’s become a little side project of mine, dealing with this! And the contents of your basket will surely help me do so.” His neck stretched and his head tilted at an impossible angle. “However did you guess I needed such items?” 

Rosie laughed, a laugh that started as a dainty tremble of lace at her throat and ended with the foundations of the hotel shaking in a hearty tremor. “How many times must I tell you, Alastor? Whenever there’s a problem, you simply leave it all to me!” 

In the mortal realm, Carol and Anne were trying to deal with the immutable facts of their current reality. For them, this meant that Anne was drunk, and Carol was well on her way. 

“I’m not going to do that,” Anne said from where she sat on the floor, clutching a mug of mostly vodka and ice. 

“It’s the only thing we can do,” said Carol, who kept checking and rechecking the contents of her glass to verify it wasn’t blood. “Considering that we now know we’re dealing with an actual freaking demon!” 

Anne groaned. “Well, are you going to pay me one hundred bucks to replace the thing, then?”

“Hey, you said before it was just seventy-nine!”

“Yeah, well, shipping! You know!” Anne drained the contents of her mug. “And what if destroying the spirit box sets the thing loose, huh? Did you think of that? What if it makes a new home in our home? Or even in one of us?” She shuddered. “You really want to be stuck talking like DJ Alastor?” 

“Shit fuck no,” said Carol. “But I don’t want to be stuck listening to him forever, either. Or his girlfriend Rose or whatever the hell that was we just heard over the radio thing.”

“Spirit box!” Anne yelled from the kitchen, where she was pouring herself another vodka and ice.  
“Whatever!” Carol glared into her glass. “You think we could find anyone to do an exorcism on it?” 

“Nah,” said Anne, “Too obscure and too expensive. And neither of us are Catholic, which means it probably wouldn’t work anyway.”

“Maybe I’ll look him up,” Carol waved a hand vaguely at her friend. “Research a bit. Find out who Alastor was, and we can go throw holy water on his grave.”

“How is that supposed to help, exactly?” 

“I don’t know! But he’s being an ass and we should know more about who we’re dealing with. Maybe there’s a death record. An obituary, you know?” Carol hiccupped. There was silence as Carol scrolled and tapped, stretched out on the couch.

Anne spread out on the carpet starfish-style, questioning every single life choice that brought them to this point, considering lighting candles, saying prayers, and putting up crosses for the first time since pretty much ever.

“Here we go! The Times Picayune, 1933. Hey, look at this,” Carol sat up and handed her phone to Anne. 

“Oh. Is this actually him?”

“It’s the only death with that name in that year. So, probably? Call me Robert Stack, `cause I just solved this mystery!” Carol doubled over, laughing.

Anne glared. “Don’t you dare invoke that name! Robert Stack is with the angels now, and it was never his job to actually solve the mysteries!”

Carol snorted. “Did you see the picture?” 

“Of Robert Stack?”

“No, asshole, of our dead, formerly human, currently demon, problematic friend!” 

Anne glanced at the black and white image and then at Carol, shaking her head. “Really?”

“What do you mean, ‘really’?’” 

“You think he’s sexy! You’ve got that look on your face, and now you're ruffling your hair like you do when you see a hot guy. I’ve known for you way too long; you’re not subtle!”

“Oh wow! I do not!” Carol rolled her eyes, combing her fingers through her short hair before abruptly stopping.

“You know he probably had syphilis, right?” Anne said. “Pretty much every guy from the 30’s was riddled with syphilis.” 

“Gross. Anyway, I was wrong about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not white. He’s Creole, though you could’ve fooled me from how he sounds. Guess hell made him keep his white voice.” Carol held her finger down on the image and saved it to her camera roll. 

“What else did you find out? Did he do anything unusual?” 

“I have no idea. I’ll keep looking through news articles from that time, but so far it doesn’t seem like much was written about him other than the obituary. So, if we feel like getting more information, I guess we’ll just have to ask for now.” Carol scrunched up her face in disgust, thinking of how their last interaction ended. “We really are in over our heads, huh?”

“Maybe. But, isn’t it kind of exciting? I wonder what else Alastor can do, what he could tell us about what happens after you die. I didn’t realize the spirit box was such a powerful device!”

Carol looked at her strangely. “Do you remember all the blood and the exploding lamp? You bothered by any of that?”

“Yeah, but, the box,” Anne sat up and picked up the little radio tuner, “It’s doing things it shouldn’t be able to do, even by supernatural, ghost hunting standards. The things it plays now are so strange, all those weird conversations.”

“You’re willing to put up with property damage and personal torment just to hear some demons gossip, huh? I guess it is kind of like listening to one of those weird podcasts where it’s a bunch of people talking about inside jokes you have no idea about.” 

“No, it’s more than that,” Anne said. “Don’t you want to know more about the spirit world, the other side? Isn’t that why we started investigating the paranormal to begin with?” 

“I guess,” said Carol. “But this demonic shit is a bit much for me.” She got up from the sofa, stepped into her boots and slid a denim jacket over her shoulders. “I’m going to walk across the street to grab some food, you want to come along?” 

Anne shook her head. “I’ve still got the taste of blood in my mouth, no thanks.” 

“Suit yourself, but don’t complain when I’m eating curly fries and you don’t have any!” Carol stepped out. “Don’t let the demon in the box set the place on fire while I’m gone, ok?” Carol was only half joking as she shut the door, a little unnerved by how intently her friend held onto and looked at the spirit box.


	6. Going Radio Rental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood, sleep paralysis, gross food stuff

The Radio Demon was currently engaged in some very specialized arts and crafts. A needle and thread will do just fine to join the front and back. Burlap will serve for the skin. Humble materials enable spirit and flesh to interact. Something soft is needed to stuff the doll, to make the limbs pliant, able to be manipulated and moved, played with. Rosie had given him just the thing. 

Alastor reached into the goodie basket to pet the soft, fresh moss that lined the bottom. He brought it up to his face and breathed in the damp, earthy scent. It was still alive and smelled so green. A shiver passed through his body and for a moment a strain of a forgotten song emitted right from him unbidden. Nostalgia for the living world, what a truly useless feeling. Memories of moss draping from the limbs of trees, of blood seeping into moss, forced him to recall how it felt to be alive. A tiny trickle of blood leaked slyly from his eyes and he removed his monocle to clean it. He wondered how much blood was truly housed within him nowadays, and whether the amount had increased since his demise. 

Not for the first time, he imagined himself impaled on an angel’s spear, grinning as an ocean of blood spouted out of him. Was there enough demon blood in his body to make an angel sick? He hoped so. Not for the first time, he hoped that when his time came to be erased, his body would burst magnificently and a dark sea of his concentrated evil would flow forth to sicken and sully the angels. 

A wistful sigh hissed out from between his hideous, sharp teeth, still fixed in a grin. His grin never slipped, even when he was all alone, especially when he was all alone. Now, that’s a foolish thought. The Radio Demon was never alone. Around him, shadows twitched and sounds emitted, chaotic and fizzing with static.The pupils of his eyes shifted into two small dials that bounced as they scanned through various channels across the mortal and the spirit realm. Propped nearby, Alastor’s microphone blinked its eye and dutifully played the sounds he sought. 

And now to attend to these two mortals, with their flesh and organs and uncorrupted souls. Their delicate minds. He gave the larger doll blue buttons for eyes, and the smaller doll black buttons. Short brown hair for the taller doll, long black hair for the other. Tiny bells sewn onto the sides of their heads. He embroidered their names right into the burlap, just as he was taught long ago. There was such great power hidden in delicate skills that were, in his time, often dismissed as women’s work. Some of the most great and ancient powers reside in the realm of the feminine, and when Alastor worked such powers, he did so with a sincere reverence. 

When he was done sewing, he set the dolls aside and conjured the proper veves to imbue them with power. As he felt the spirits take hold, filling his hollow hungry being, the dials in his eyes spun wildly and the tiny antlers upon his head branched up and out. He began to salivate. Smelling the meat in the basket, his mouth made short work of the marrow and the venison. Once the spirits within him were sated with food, they craved music. Songs transmitted over the radio would not suffice, the spirits wanted the physical experience of his own voice. When Alastor was alive, he had a golden voice that could charm the birds down from the trees. Dead, he commanded the same voice to charm and please the spirits, and in return, they lent him power. 

Alastor’s smile stretched as he reached for his microphone and treated the spirits to the best of his musical repertoire. When the spirits called him to sing, he would sing. When the spirits called him to dance, he danced. When the spirits wanted food, Alastor took it as an opportunity to indulge his boundless appetite. Better than anyone, Alastor knew that every instance of spiritual power required a price, and every time he worked significant powers, his own cursed body paid that price. 

With a snap of his fingers, his sharp thumbnail sliced open two fingertips. He smeared his own potent, black blood over the foreheads of each doll. Around the soft waists of the dolls he tied red and black ribbons, along with a few strands of his own hair. “Two little dollies, pretty as a picture, soft and playful and ready for fun,” he patted each doll on the head. “Shame I don’t have a strand or two of your hair, dollies, but you're stuffed with moss from the surface of the living earth, a rare and precious thing! You both take that for granted, don’t you? The feel and the smell of moss and grass and damp earth. All these mortal delights before you, and all you want is to talk to dead spirits! Now that it’s a two-way conversation, ladies, you can chase me, and I’ll chase you, but you should know that my legs are longer, my arms are stronger, my voice is louder, and my hunger for diversion has no bounds.”

When Anne laid down on her earthly pillow to sleep that night, she tucked the spirit box to the side of her head, just under her pillow. All night she had been listening to its music, the melodies haunting, addictive, the singing voice mellow, static-muffled and fluttery around the edges. She knew that it was the demon’s voice, because really, what else could it be? But it tickled her ears and soothed her heart, even as it provoked her mind. 

Half-asleep, head still fuzzy from vodka and stress, she sighed out loud, “That’s nice. Keep singing Alastor, your voice is so nice. Don’t tell Carol I said that.” She snuggled down deeper into the sheets and pillow, letting the demon’s voice croon and whisper close, so very close to her ear. The peaceful, sleepy feeling washed over her dizzy head and she felt the tender, sweet gesture of her head being pet, fingers stroking through her hair. But that couldn’t be right; no one was there. Her head felt fuzzy, like it was full of static. The voice sounded close to her ear, so close she could feel a hot breath against the side of her face. 

“Anne, don’t you like having me near? I’m right here with you, I won’t leave you alone like your friend has. I’ll sing to you, I’ll pet you so nice, I’ll tell you all the occult secrets your frail little heart desires. I’ll do all this for you, and you’ll do something nice for me in return, won’t you?” 

“Mmmph,” said Anne, who was by now asleep and drooling lightly into her pillow. She dreamed that a large, lanky shadow was spooning her as she slept, whispering sweet static nothings in her ear, embracing and petting her softly. If this is what a demon was like, maybe it wasn’t so bad? She could do, and has done, worse than a snuggly shadow buddy who would sing to her. As she fell deeper into a fitful, boozy slumber, she dreamt of shadows growing tendrils that crept up along her walls and blotted out the moonlight from her window. The shadow by her side blinked two eerie, green ovals of light. Its glow fell upon Anne’s sleeping body and it smiled, a smile that curled into a spiral at both corners. The spectral form spread over her, covering her feather light at first, and then pressing down to hold her in place as the shadowy tendrils wound around her limbs and neck. 

“Won’t you let me devour your pretty little mind?” 

Anne awoke, her eyes flying wide open. She wanted to scream, but found she couldn’t take a breath. She wanted to leap up out of bed, but she was held in place, paralyzed by some invisible weight. The darkness that surrounded her was thick, and constricted her throat as the spirit box crackled next to her head. Heavy, the darkness draped over her like a full-body lead apron, and then it grew heavier, pressing down hard. 

A transparent layer of darkness obscured her vision, like looking through murky water. She blinked, trying to see what was wrong, what held her still. A figure with long thin limbs towered over the foot of her bed, and the sound of crackling static grew louder as the pressure on her body increased. 

“Why, whatever has come over you, dear?” The voice in the spirit box whispered. “Didn’t you want to see a ghost? Am I not a fine enough figure of a phantom for you? Take a closer look now, what do you think?” 

The figure’s huge eyes opened up, imbued with hellish, scarlet light and rolling madly. Its face split open into a smile of ghastly long shark teeth that emitted their own sick yellow light. Its torso and and limbs stretched up and out until they covered the entire wall, knocking over the dresser, desk and chair in the room. The figure’s body was clothed with the deep red color of blood, while its eyes swarmed with static, making its unholy red glow flicker like a television tuned to an infernal channel.

Two points like great devil’s horns jutted up from its head, which shot up and tilted crazily to the side with a sound like a key winding a clock. His neck stretched until his head rested at a ninety degree angle right up against where the wall met the ceiling. 

“There’s no way you could have known this, my dear,” the voice in the box buzzed, “but I am rather big down here in hell. And in here! Why, I can barely fit in this room, haha!” The figure moved as though it were laughing, but the sound of its laughter still came from the spirit box. “You were so eager to contact the dead, and here I am, just for you! I’ll infect the darkness wherever you are. You wanted me, and now you have me. We should get closer, darling. You should listen to me, do as I say, and I could show you how to bend and shape the darkness around you, how to control a spirit to do just what you want. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

Alastor’s shadowy tendrils squeezed Anne tight around her limbs as the tendril around her neck loosened up, and she gasped in a shaky breath. The other tendrils went slack and slid away into the darkness, and the heaviness holding her down slowly dissipated. Anne shot up in bed to confront the massive, long limbed monstrosity splayed across her walls, but as she sat up, it glitched and flickered and fizzled right out of existence before her eyes. 

Anne took in several deep breaths before she screamed into the darkness over and over again.

Across the street, Carol decided to eat at the restaurant instead of heading home right away. She needed a break from the weird, ceaseless chatter of dead radio men. The music in the place was loud and obnoxious, but as far as vegan tacos went, it was the only game in town, and every so often a bottle of the chain’s signature hot sauce would find its way into her purse and into the pantry back at home. She figured it wasn’t so bad to do this at a chain restaurant, and would never dream of doing such a thing at a mom and pop style taqueria. 

Carol herself was tired, tipsy and feeling more ready and eager to eat than ever. She perched on a tall stool at a table near the window and took the first bite of taco, crunching and chewing, applying salsa like it was a renewable resource. In the middle of a spicy, contemplative mouthful, she became aware of something weird sliding over her tongue. 

What the hell could that be? It almost had the same spongy, springy give as tofu, but was certainly not right for what she had ordered. 

The odd texture swelled up inside of her mouth, and she hurriedly spat and coughed it out before the thing could choke her. But she couldn’t spit it all out at once, as it just kept swelling. She had to reach into her mouth, wrap her fingers around the pulsating, meaty shape, and pull. A long, slimy purple mass was what she pulled right out of her mouth, and it grew in size as it exited her mouth, coiling around her hand like a snake, one end of it bloody, trailing fleshy rootlike veins. 

Carol fell right off the tall stool, screaming and coughing, kneeling doubled over on the floor, flailing her hand and beating it against the edge of the table to get the thing off of her. 

Around her was the scrape of many chairs and shouts of surprise as people either ran from her vicinity or tried to move in closer to assist her. She was dimly aware of someone yelling to call an ambulance, and someone else trying to get her to stand up so they could stop her from choking, but she pushed them away and kept screaming, “Jesus Christ, get this thing off!” 

The fleshy mass grew in length, winding up her arm now, weirdly prehensile with a mind of its own, creeping up and up until it reached her shoulder and tapped, like it was trying to get her attention. She looked at the weird pointed end of the thing, still screaming and trying to yank it off. A bloody red eye blinked open in the wet flesh of the appendage and regarded her with judgment. An all-too-familiar voice issued forth, seemingly from the eyeball. 

“I regret to inform you, dear, you’ve got rather poor taste, haha!” 

The realization that the thing wrapped around her arm was a goddamn tongue spurred Carol to her feet, where she then lunged for the silverware tray by the door, pushing people out of the way as she barreled through. She grabbed a metal fork and plunged it into the meatiest part of the long tongue wrapped around her arm. 

Carol gasped for air and blinked, looking up. Most of the diners had left the building, and a few frightened employees stood nearby, one on the phone with 911. 

She looked down at her arm, which had the tines of the metal fork buried deep into the flesh of her own arm. There was no demonic purple tongue to be seen. 

A static-filled darkness mercifully washed over her then as she passed out cold on the floor. At the table she had been sitting at, her purse tipped over and a bottle of hot sauce fell out and rolled across the floor.


End file.
